


Picking Currants

by vina_writes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Shenanigans, Sleep talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 08:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30018690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vina_writes/pseuds/vina_writes
Summary: Harry's not sure what's more surprising— that Draco sleep talks, or the things he says.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 11
Kudos: 141





	Picking Currants

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](https://dracothecupcake.tumblr.com/post/645464624720953344/inspiration-in-process-yaasdrarry-yaasdrarry) adorable post. Thank you so much to my beta [redtrees7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtrees7/profile)!!

Harry thinks _he’s_ the one who’s dreaming the first time it happens. 

Draco’s such a perfect sleeper: he curls into a tight ball, hands clasped against his chest and knees pulled up towards his chin. He’s never stolen a blanket, never snored, never kicked— he stays still as a statue, sleep-soft and warm under the covers. With the way he tucks his head, he even fits perfectly in the cradle of Harry’s body on cold nights. There’s nothing Harry doesn’t love about it.

Which is why he knows it must be him. It simply isn’t possible that Draco talks in his sleep. 

Whatever it is, it ends just as abruptly as it began. Harry strains to catch the sound, but the little murmurs are gone. Draco snuffles into his pillow and Harry tries not to smile; if he does, he’ll never fall asleep again, and he’s got to be up early for work tomorrow. He closes his eyes and settles in against the long line of Draco’s warm back.

“Picking currants, picking currants…”

Harry freezes. That certainly wasn’t him. 

“Picking currants, picking currants, have to pick my cur-rants,” Draco sings softly. Harry stares at his boyfriend, vaguely wondering which one of them has finally gone ‘round the bend. With their combined cornucopia of issues they’ve singlehandedly paid for Healer Ashfield’s new summer home in Tuscany, so it’s well within the realm of possibilities.

Draco’s still chanting. It’s a simple little two note tune, and he wiggles as he hums it, his speech slurred with sleep.

“Er, Draco?” Harry asks quietly, “Are you awake?”

“Picking currants.”

That’s a no, then. Harry pushes himself up on one elbow so he can see Draco’s face. There’s a furrow between his fine brows, his cheek smushed against the pillow. It muffles his voice. 

“Um,” Harry says. Draco doesn’t reply. 

“No,” he suddenly whines, and it’s so unexpected that Harry almost loses his balance and falls right on top of him. “They’re mine, _Cornelius_.”

“Is someone after your currants?” Harry can’t help asking. He tries to stifle his laugh at the idea of Draco dreaming about the former Minister of Magic threatening his (evidently) valuable fruit. It appears the currants are momentarily safe, however, because Draco sighs happily and resumes mumbling. Harry watches for a few minutes, but there doesn’t seem to be any immediate change in sight and he’s reluctant to wake Draco up just to get some quiet. He finally lays down behind him once again, wrapping an arm around his waist to pull him closer.

The singing stops abruptly. “Harry Potter!” Draco announces. Harry winces, thinking he’s finally woken him, but no— “A thief!”

“I— I’m sorry?” Harry sputters. 

“Dagnabbit, he’s taken my currants, the filthy cur! May he be cursed until his dyin’… breath,” Draco sighs the last word like it takes a monumental effort, and it would sound a lot more threatening if he didn’t spit it in an American Southern drawl. As it is, Harry nearly bites through his lip trying not to laugh.

He still can’t resist taunting him a little. “Oh my, that sounds serious! Whatever shall you do?”

“M’gonna… cook ‘im.” 

Well then. Harry certainly thinks he’d rather avoid that. “Er, how many currants do I owe you?”

“Five tens and seven, noble liege.” 

“Right.” Harry’s not going to ask where Draco got the accent from. He looks around the room, but he’s not wearing his glasses and it’s still woefully dark. Draco sounds like he’s getting impatient however, mumbling quiet currant-related death threats, and Harry’d rather his lover not dream about making him into a pie.

“Here!” he says quickly. “Here’re your currants, Draco. I’m terribly sorry, it was entirely my mistake.”

He pushes his closed fist against Draco’s curled fingers, with no plan further than to see what that triggers. To Harry’s pleasant surprise, however, Draco latches onto his hand and cradles it to his chest without checking what’s inside. 

“Mine,” he murmurs. Harry melts a little. 

“Am I forgiven?” he asks.

Draco sneezes. Harry takes that as a yes.

Silence finally falls around them in a deep hush. The ebbing and flowing of Draco’s breath whispers against the fabric of the sheets, and Harry sighs before nuzzling into his hair. His hand is already getting a bit sweaty where it’s held tight in Draco’s, but it keeps them close in the center of the bed, and Harry likes that. He closes his eyes.

The singing starts again. 

At first, Harry doesn’t mind. It's the same two words, repeated in a tired loop, and he finds his mind humming along, riding the waves of Draco’s little pattern. He has a high, clear voice, the sort Harry would want a lullaby sung in. It’s not particularly refined or in tune, but it’s heartfelt and amusing. Harry thinks he’d like to spend all night listening to Draco sing about currants. 

That is, until he realizes he actually _might_ spend all night doing just that, alongside trying not to murder his boyfriend in his sleep. It’s not so bad at first— indeed, Harry was just thinking about how soothing Draco’s voice is— but that’s before the thirtieth repetition. Then the sixtieth. It begins to pound away in Harry’s ears, but it it’s a matter of pride now. He refuses to be beaten by a ditty. The currants go on, and on, and _on_ , the hours ticking by to the rhythm of Harry’s mounting headache, and still Draco’s mumbling about fucking _currants_. 

Harry’s not going to wake him. He’s not, really. It’s a petty thing to disturb Draco over, and he has terrible trouble falling asleep after he’s been woken. Harry can be patient and focus on something pleasant, like the feeling of Draco’s silky cheek against his as he turns his head to—

“Currants!” He shrieks directly in Harry’s ear, and it’s a wonder Harry doesn’t slap him. He does yank his hand out of Draco’s grasp and stumble his way out of bed, cursing a blue streak. 

Draco, for all his currant-related madness, smiles a happy little smirk and snuggles into his pillow again. Harry eyes him in resigned defeat. Bested by berries at last. 

He does take some childish pleasure in flipping two fingers towards the bed. Draco sneezes again for his troubles. With a final muttered oath, Harry snatches up the duvet and goes to spend the night on the couch.

* * *

“Mm, sleep well?” Draco asks in the morning, squinty-eyed and bright-cheeked.

“I’m going to shove currants so far up your arse, you’ll be shitting berries for months,” Harry shoots back.

  
  
  



End file.
